


Falling

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Xenogears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-07
Updated: 2003-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sigurd and Citan find that in over ten years, nothing has changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Angel Nia

 

 

'I'm gonna rock you like a baby when the cities fall We will rise as the building's crumble  
Float there and watch it all  
Amidst the burning, we'll be churning  
You know, love will be our wings  
The passion rises up from the ashes  
When the world ends'  
Dave Matthews Band - When the World Ends 

Maison would fret, because he always did. In the months since they'd moved into Blevadik and Bart had finally taken his rightful place on the throne, the world had been up in the air and had yet to settle down. He'd never seen the old knight with as much energy as he had now, and didn't have the heart to tease him about it. Bart, however, was restless with the responsibility and what he called 'confinement', and had left to spend some time in the marketplace. And as soon as Maison realized this, he would send out a search party. 

Sigurd Harcourt knew well where Bart's boredom could lead him, but he sympathized. They'd spent so many years working toward this point and overcome nearly insurmountable obstacles to reach it. If anyone deserved a break, it was Bart. As clich or trite as it sounded, he /had/ just helped Fei and his other friends save the world. Mostly likely, as well, he was feeling slightly lonely. Elly and Fei were in Nissan with Margie, and nearly everyone had returned to their respective homes. 

"Or are you projecting, Sigurd?" He murmured to himself, drawing a hand down his face. 

Turning from his view on the balcony, he glanced into the office Bart had insisted he had. He was, as Bart jokingly put it, 'first mate' to the king now. As far as Bart was concerned, nothing had changed. Except for the fact that they were half-brothers was common knowledge. 

//"You know I look to you for advice, Sig. If you won't take anything else, you'd sure as hell better be my advisor. Because I don't know a damn thing about being a king."// 

Smiling slightly, he listened to the echo of Bart's words in his head and gave the view his attention again. The sun could bite as sharply as any cold front, though the result was considerably different. Having grown up in this environment, however, he was acclimatized to it and found it pleasant. He liked the sand and the sturdy frame of buildings, the friendliness of the people and the particular wildlife indigenous to only this climate. He supposed he was as fond of lizards as the next man. 

"Mm. Very excellent work space, Sigurd. Efficient and organized, something I never would have accused you of being in our Jugend days." 

Straightening, Sigurd didn't turn at first. He let the voice settle in and stir him, as it always did. Crisp and precise, with a deeper flex to it than you would expect by looking at him. A man who could talk about anything and keep you fascinated. Or maybe that was just because he liked listening to him. But he'd given up the right to say that aloud more than ten years ago. 

Finally, he faced him. Folding his arms just above the tanned expanse of abdomen his cut of clothing afforded, he arched the only eyebrow he had left. "You certainly would have accused me of much worse, Hyuga." 

Though he had changed his named to Citan Uzuki when he'd left Solaris for the land below, he remained Hyuga to Sigurd, who had known him as nothing else. 

Joining his friend on the balcony, Citan smiled benignly. "Ah, but I would be justified." 

"That was more than ten years ago. People are entitled to change," Sigurd pointed out blandly. 

"Yes," Citan agreed. But he adjusted his glasses and deliberately fixated his gazed lower. 

"What?" 

"Short tops and... is that a bellybutton piercing, Sigurd? My. I thought you had gotten rid of that in an effort to appear as a better role model to young Bart." 

"Did you come here to insult me?" 

Citan laughed. "No, of course not. I am simply teasing. Would you like to offer me some of that tea sitting on your desk?" 

Bemused, Sigurd shook his head and walked past Citan into his office. After pouring them both tea, he sat on the edge and gestured to a chair. He hadn't seen Citan in months, and knew that his visits were generally for a purpose, so he wondered what the other man had come for. 

Accepting the tea, Citan sat and crossed his legs, looking both elegant and studious as he further examined his surroundings. He had bound his long, glossy black hair and carelessly throwing it over one shoulder again. He wore some silk, oriental combination that accentuated his features and build, and while it seemed accidental, Sigurd knew him well enough to believe that nothing where this man was concerned, was /ever/ accidental. 

While he would never out rightly call Citan calculated, everything he did was completely well thought out and fit in with whatever course of events he was following. His marriage, his child, the fact that he was a doctor... all of that had given him access to Fei. Sigurd didn't doubt that he cared for Yui and Midori, because Citan was incapable of deliberately harming someone without their knowledge of it. But he knew the marriage wasn't conventional, by any means. Or maybe that was simply wishful thinking on his part, and if it was, it made him very annoyed at himself. 

"Why don't you ask." 

"Mm?" He asked, puzzled, as he jerked his attention back to the present. 

"Whatever it is you are pondering," Citan returned, sipping his tea. 

Sigurd watched the hands, long and narrow. A warrior's fingers. Of them all, the Elements, Citan had been the most skilled and the most dangerous. That they had been able to stay together as long as they did in Jugend should have been amazing, given their elements. Water and fire. but Citan had always been able to soothe him and calm him in a time when he'd lacked the ability himself. 

He had given up a lot for Bart. But he never once regretted it. 

"Nothing in particular. How are Midori and Yui?" 

There was no discernable expression on Citan's face. "They are well. Both find Shevat suits them." 

"The reconstruction?" 

"Excellent. Very quick, as well." 

"If I know you, you had your hand in that," Sigurd mused, ignoring his own tea. 

"Yes, well... I have always been excessively nosy." 

Sigurd smiled. "No argument." 

"Do you know, that is the first you have smiled at me since I arrived. Was I so unwelcome?" 

"You know you aren't. And don't pretend to have a bruised ego, Hyu, because I find that laughable." 

"Ah, Sigurd, I have missed verbally sparring with you." Now obviously amused, Citan drank the last of his tea and set the China aside. 

Verbally sparring. Sigurd remembered it as full out arguments where Citan invariably won, and often by means that weren't entirely legal. At least not by his standards. He would've thought Citan above using sex as a tool, but the man was far more devious than he appeared. Devious, and so intellectually vast, that he was downright frightening. 

"I'm going to be blunt. What brings you here? You never do anything without reason." 

"Tsk," Citan chided. "If Maison were to hear you..." 

Gaze focusing sharply on Citan, Sigurd warned, "Citan. I'm not here for your personal amusement." 

There was laughter in the warm brown eyes behind the glasses. Laughter and something more. Growing annoyed at being toyed with, Sigurd rose and walked to the balcony doors, turning his back. 

"Sigurd..." Arms came up behind him, around him. Hands splayed across his bare abdomen, skin to skin, forcing him to tighten his muscles as heat spread and pooled lower, tightening other things. 

Lips brushed his ear. "I am sorry." Breath tickled the nape of his neck, raising the sensitive hairs there. 

"Hyuga, what..." He struggled with himself, hating the slight weakness he heard in his own voice. "What are you doing?" 

Burying his nose in the back of Sigurd's hair, Citan inhaled. "Is it a crime? To want to be near you?" 

"Don't do this, dammit. You're married and have a child. You-" 

"I know what I have, Sigurd. Does it surprise you that the arrangement Yui and I have suits us? Or that she knows about us and does not disapprove?" 

A stronger man would've put distance between them, wouldn't have wavered. Hadn't he spent the last ten years molding himself into something Bart could both look up to and be proud of? 

"There is no 'us', Hyuga." 

"We made choices," Citan agreed. But he didn't let go. 

"I don't regret them. Bart deserves this." 

"Sigurd. I never blamed you. Do not sound so disheartened." 

"Then why do this to us?" He implored, biting each word out and hating himself for wanting to give in. 

"I have left you alone, because you were not ready. Your life for ten years was Bart's life, and I respected that. But the time for you to live for yourself is now and if that frightens you, it cannot be helped. Because I will not leave you alone." 

Citan's hand left his stomach to lightly cover his erection. 

"Jesus, Hyuga!" He managed, the words coming out strangled. 

"Tell me that you do not want me and I will go." 

"And you know I can't do that. But I need you to step away from me now. Give me room to breathe. You know perfectly well what you're capable of, and I know what'll happen if I let you in control." 

"This is not a power struggle, Sigurd." 

Sigurd stepped out of his arms, turned. There was no expression on his face. The man that stared at Citan now was one in perfect, absolute control. "Isn't it?" 

Something like hurt flickered across Citan's face before he neatly tucked it away, leaving Sigurd to wonder if he had imagined it, if it had been there at all. Citan was and had always been so fiercely intelligent that he could play on the human emotions like a man born to an instrument. Having been on the receiving end of that sensation many times in the past, and having watched Citan employ his abilities, he wasn't keen on being the fool now. 

"Things were always a power struggle for us, Hyuga." 

Citan smiled, beautifully. "You know we could never have it any other way. Neither of us would have respected weakness." 

Sigurd stared at him a beat before saying, "There's a festival in the city tonight to celebrate Bart's first year as king. Are you coming?" 

"If you will have me." 

"I'll see you there," was all he said, brushing past Citan and walking out of his office. He didn't turn back. He didn't need to.   
 

* * *

  


It was long after dark. The sun had settled behind the hills, replaced by the moon, which sat full and high in a midnight blue sky. Stars rested all around it, as if the Gods had deliberately planned it that way. It was still warm, but the sticky pervasiveness of day has fled, leaving a pleasant sort of breeze that lay against bare skin and lazily stirred sand. 

"I didn't know Citan was coming," Bart commented, shifting on the step he'd claimed as his seat. 

Gaze shifting, Sigurd folded his bare arms. "Mm. Neither did I." 

"Well, either way," Bart hooked one leg casually over the other, still the Captain, never the king, "it's nice to see him." 

Because it was, and because Citan looked good in yet another of his oriental outfits, Sigurd looked away. He found Margie surrounded by laughing people and, of course, Nisan nuns. Her hair was longer now and she'd done something different to it. Every time he saw her, she looked just a little bit older, reminding him that it wouldn't be long before she was a woman. And if the nuns had their way, she and Bart would be married by then. 

Amused, because talk of marriage made both Bart and Margie nervous, he smiled. 

"Another smile. Surely, not for me?" Citan, seemingly lost in his own personal, private amusement himself, stood with his elbow resting in one hand, a glass of some sort of berry concoction in the free one. Sigurd could smell the strength of it even from this distance. 

"Careful. That's liable to get you drunk," Bart warned, grinning. "I know," he added, winking. "Anyway, I see Fei and Elly. Think I'll wander off that way. Have a nice time playing catch up." 

Leaping up with the grace and energy of youth, Bart made good on his word, waving Fei down with only the sort of exuberance he could display. 

"Never changes, does he?" Citan mused, sipping the alcohol and wincing slightly. 

"No. There's something very comforting in that." 

"Yes... I would imagine there would be." 

They stood among the laughter, the music, the scent of food. Between them, on either side, fires took any chill from the air there might be and allowed for roasting of food that hadn't been prepared yet. It was something Sigurd had only dreamed of and rarely seen. It was something to be proud of; people living in freedom and happiness, never worried when their next meal would be, whether what they said or did would land them in prison, or if a member of their family would suddenly disappear. 

Relaxing completely, Sigurd dropped his arms and looked heavenward. No one in Aveh would have to worry about that again. 

"You are dressed lightly tonight," Citan commented, disrupting his thoughts. 

Sigurd met his inquisitive gaze. 

He hadn't chosen his clothing with any particular care or design in mind. Only that it was loose fitting and white, made of a thin material that protected against the climate of the desert, but also allowed for his skin to breathe. That and he was wearing sandals. They almost all were, except for Bart. There was nothing new in that. 

"Not really," he countered, puzzled. 

"Perhaps..." Citan reached out and fingered Sigurd's shoulder, slowly drawing a thumb down the muscles in his arms, "... I am referring to what is exposed." 

"Are you seducing me?" He demanded. 

"And if I am?" 

"It won't work." 

Citan laughed then; rich, full laughter that had Bart, Fei, and Elly looking their way. 

"Stop drawing attention to us, Hyuga," he ground out. Oh, the crafty bastard had certainly accomplished what he wanted. One quick touch and that silky tone, and he was aroused and wanting. 

Citan might have said something, had one of the merchants not come up. Bowing briefly, she pressed a small bottle into Sigurd's hands. "For you, Master Sigurd. From the king." And she hurried off. 

Feeling yet again confused, Sigurd looked down. A bottle of scented oil. Mouth dropping open, he ignored Citan \-- who was now doubled over in laughter -- and locked, eye to eye, with Bart. The young king raised the glass in his hand, grinned, and jerked his head toward the castle. 

"I cannot even believe-" he started, only to fall silent. 

"Apparently, the young king sees more than we give him credit for," Citan noted, wiping at his eyes. 

"You," Sigurd began vehemently, twisting swiftly, only to have what would have come next slide back down his throat. He shivered, and it had nothing to do with the further darkening night and everything to do with the intensity of Citan's expression. 

"You have only to ask me, Sigurd." 

"I won't." 

"Then I am asking you. To come with me because I need you." 

"Hyuga." 

"If it were as simple as sex, then-" 

"Nothing is simple between us. Nothing." Gaze biting into him, Sigurd advanced, always having the leverage of a few inches in height. And when it counted, he used them. 

Citan's expression softened. "Wrong or right, my feelings do not change." 

"Ah, Hyu..." Wavering, Sigurd tightened his grip on the bottle in his hand. Ten years... ten years had passed and there were still wounds for both of them that time simply could not heal. 

Without another word, before he could let himself change his mind, he turned his back on the festival and moved toward the castle. He didn't stop to see if Citan was following. It wouldn't matter now. If he came, he did; if he didn't, he didn't. 

But he was there, as they entered and he nodded to the guards. There, falling beside him as they took the steps soundlessly, wordlessly. There, as they walked the last hall and into his rooms. As the door clicked softly behind them, he unwound his sandals, undid his tunic and let it fall to the floor, and only then did he turn. 

They fell together, he jerked the ribbon from Citan's hair and plunged his fingers in. Their mouths met, fused with heat and a sort of desperation born of wanting and waiting for too long. He slanted his mouth and sank in, only dimly aware of anything. It'd been too long. Far, far too long. 

Citan's fingers came up, played along his spine so that he arched into the motion and groaned into the other man's mouth. He had forgotten what it was like to have a lover that knew all of your secret places and stroked them skillfully, drawing out the desired results until he had you all but humming and burning and begging for more. 

Twisting, he jerked them toward the bed and fell. Citan sank into the mattress, hair splaying across silk, legs parting, eyes dark with promise. He came over him and pressed him down farther, undoing the clasps that held Citan's tunic together at the shoulder. Peeling it back slowly, carefully, he bent his head, tongue drawing a warm, wet line across any skin exposed. And then, back up again, to inhale his scent where his neck molded into the lines of his collar bone. 

"God, you smell good," he murmured. His hands moved lower, skimming Citan's sides so that he could pull up on his clothing and mold his palms along the flare of his hip. Drawing upward, he spread them across the other man's ribs and then deliberately teased, only brushing his thumbs across fully erect nipples before removing his hands. 

"You do like to draw things out, Sigurd." 

He smiled, a wicked flash of white in a darkly tanned face. "These are my terms, my dear Hyuga. And before I take you, I will have you beg." 

Moving purposefully, he caused friction and tore a moan from Citan. Considering it a small victory, he did away with more clothing in impatient haste, wanting flesh against flesh. They met again, muscle to muscle, bone to bone, mouth to mouth. Tongues, and the taste of something berry, something exotic. He could live a thousand years and never get enough. 

Tearing his lips away, he slid lower, tongue rubbing across one nipple and then lower still, making a path to Citan's exposed belly button where he leisurely drew a circle and then dipped the tips of his fingers into the edge of Citan's pants. 

"Strip us of everything, Sigurd, and we are only men," Citan murmured, arching into Sigurd's hand as he grasped him. 

"I've never claimed to be anything else." He brushed his thumb across the tip, heard the intake of breathe, felt Citan tremble. 

No, it would not be nearly enough. 

Letting go, he withdrew his hand and took the last of his lover's covering, leaving him pale and exposed against dark sheets. Sighing deeply in appreciation, he touched the underside of Citan's knee, kept going to the inside of his thigh, and then higher, following with his mouth. 

He teased, he touched, he drove him to the edge and brought him back again, watching as Citan's hands fisted helplessly in the fabric and his breathing became erratic and uncontrollable. He reveled in being in control only because of the pleasure it could bring to both of them. And he wanted with a such an exquisite need that it tormented him, because nothing short of possession would give him what he craved. 

"Sigurd, please, no more..." 

Fumbling with the rest of his own clothing, he found the oil discarded on the bed and slicked his fingers down with it. Probing, he stretched and dried his hand on the sheets, before rising above Citan and pressing fingers to his cheek. There was a second where their gazes met and held. Something passed between them, shared by only them and understood in only the way lovers can that haven't forgotten one another. 

Citan's hands came to hips. "Now. It must be now." 

There was no time for hesitation. He entered him, and they stayed that way for a moment, fused together, until Sigurd came down on his elbows and the rhythm began. Who they were, where they were, what they were faded as they moved. Their hearts pounded against one another and they sought out one another's lips, fingers touching and locking. 

It seemed to never end. He went higher and higher, absorbing the textures, the feelings, and the sounds. There was nothing to grasp onto as his breath sobbed out, and his limbs went weak, moving of their own accord. So he held on, knowing only the pain of pleasure as his vision blurred and he shattered, struggling to take Citan over the edge with him. 

Citan came later, eyes wide open, Sigurd's name on his lips as his hand fell away from his lover's back. Stunned in the aftermath, Sigurd enjoyed watching him come down, stroking an unsteady hand through his hair. 

Later, when their hearts had slowed, they lay tangled in one another; sweat slicked and boneless; satiated and yet not; needing everything and nothing. The tension that'd dogged them all day was gone, replaced with a bittersweet sort of knowledge, but not and never regret. 

"You know I love you," Sigurd said quietly. 

Rolling to his side, taking Sigurd with him, Citan held him, saying simply, "You are my heart." 

"Then stay with me awhile." 

"Yes..." 

And they remained, long, long after the moon shifted from view. 

 


End file.
